


Maybe he's born with it ...

by Crollalanza



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 10:18:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6799777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crollalanza/pseuds/Crollalanza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do not pull that look on me.”<br/>He sighed. “What look?”<br/>“That ‘Keiji-this-is-really-important-and-I-wouldn’t-ask-you-but-you’re- the-only-person-I-can-possibly-turn-to’ one.”<br/>“That’s a lot of information to process in one expression,” Chikara said, and tilting his head to one side, he considered. “Maybe I should take up acting rather than directing if I’m that talented.”<br/>“Ha, I’ve just said it won’t work again. You are not plucking my eyebrows!”</p>
<p>The fic where Ennoshita needs to practise his make-up skills and Keiji reluctantly agrees to help. (But heaven help Chikara if he uses tweezers.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe he's born with it ...

**Author's Note:**

> This has been written for EnnoAka weekend on tumblr (I'm a little late, sorry). I used the bonus prompt of movies, because this is sort of inspired by that ... ish.
> 
> Okay, I had fun, and hope you like it.

 

“Hold still, will you?”

“I can’t. I want to ... I’m going to ... no, hold on, I’m okay.”

“What?”

“I thought I was going to sneeze.”Keiji flapped his hand. “The dust.”

“Powder,” Chikara replied.  He stepped back, trying (but failing) to admire his handiwork.

“Sorry?”

“It’s powder, not dust,” replied Chikara.

Keiji sniffed, wrinkling up his nose, and inhaled slowly. Sneeze clearly abated, he rolled his shoulders, then resumed his former pose (arms at his sides, palms splayed on the bed, face tilted upwards).  He peeped at Chikara from under his mascara-laden lashes, saw he was now gnawing the side of his mouth and said, “That is not the look of a man satisfied with his work.”

“Correcto-mundo. It’s the look of someone who really has no idea what the hell he’s doing. And the lighting here’s terrible.” Sighing, Chikara leant forwards, brushing his thumb under Keiji’s eye, pressing a little against the socket. “God, you have amazing cheekbones.”

“I grew them myself,” Keiji said, deflecting the compliment with his usual yawn.

“And eyebrows,” Chikara considered. “How come I have never ...” he picked up a small black pencil, “...noticed your eyebrows?”

“Are they things people generally notice?” asked Keiji, sounding interested rather than irritable for a change. (He was touchy on the subject of his looks, insisting it was hereditary so why should he be proud of an ‘accident of genetics’, as he put it.)

“Bokuto-san’s are noticeable.”

“Well, yes, you’ve got me there. His _are_ especially expressive. But why would you -”

 “Kageyama’s too, but then he is always scowling, so maybe that’s why.” He clicked his tongue. “They don’t need darkening.”

“What don’t?”

“Your eyebrows. But may...be...”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of that ‘maybe’,” Keiji said. “Chikara, if you even think about plucking my brows, I will wrench the tweezers from your hand and shove them somewhere unpleasant.”

“Oh.” Chikara’s mouth drooped. His fuller bottom lip jutted out, just a little, soft and glistening, and he widened his usually sleepy eyes until they were round like a puppy dogs. 

“Do not pull that look on me.”

He sighed. “What look?”

“That ‘Keiji-this-is-really-important-and-I-wouldn’t-ask-you-but-you’re- the-only-person-I-can-possibly-turn-to’ one.”

“That’s a lot of information to process in one expression,” Chikara said, and tilting his head to one side, he considered. “Maybe I should take up acting rather than directing if I’m that talented.”

“Ha, I’ve just said it won’t work again. You are not plucking my eyebrows!”

His lips twitched, and then leaning forwards, Chikara dropped a kiss on Keiji’s nose. “I might slick a bit of wax on them, that’s all.”

“Fine,” Keiji huffed.

“Later, though. I must to finish your eyes. The eye shadow is good, but they’re supposed to stand out. So ... eyeliner, I think.”

Resigned, Keiji closed his eyes, and then squinted one open. “This will wash off, won’t it? Only, I don’t want to look like a panda.”

“Mmm, of course.”  He wiped his hands on his trousers.

“What are you waiting for?”

“I’m nervous.”

“Why?”

“Because I have to paint it on and I’m rubbish at this bit. It’s fine practicing on a dummy, but you’re an actual person.”

“Wow, am I?”

“Don’t take the piss, or I might just accidentally on purpose use a permanent black marker.” He took a breath. “Okay, I’m going in.”

Pulling the skin around Keiji’s eye taut with his left hand, Chikara touched the liquid liner to his eyelid, intending to sweep it sideways. It was supposed to be an effortless movement, a gesture that would see a steady black line, thickening to a wing at the corner of his eye. That was the way he’d practised on the plastic head in his special effects class. And it usually worked. Except Keiji, as he’d already said, was a real person and feeling the pen, however soft, that close to his eye he involuntarily jerked.

The pen shot upwards.

“Damn!”

“Sorry.”

“S’okay.” Chikara smiled, a little lopsided, and reaching for a cotton wool ball (he was going to get through a lot of these, he knew) he wiped away the streak of black on Keiji’s forehead. “Would have been perfect if I were Chris Columbus. You could have been a star.”

“I’m far more comfortable behind the camera, thank you, Director-san.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Why?”

“You’re ridiculously photogenic. And before you roll your eyes at me, that’s not a compliment. I’m simply stating a fact,” Chikara said.  With his fingers pressed to Keiji’s temple, he waited until he’d reclosed his eyes, and then started again with the liner, this time slower, steadier, letting Keiji adjust to the slight pressure on his lid. “I’d _love_ to light you.”

“I thought you were after me for my camera skills, Chika -chan.”

“Them, too,” he murmured. Dabbing at a small blob of black, swiftly flicking it upwards, he perused the wing effect, decided he was reasonably pleased, and then turned Keiji’s face to the side to repeat the procedure.

But obviously, the law of averages - or was it the law of Maybelline - wasn’t going to rule in his favour a second time. “Ugh!”

“What’s the matter? I didn’t move that time.”

“Mmm, it’s me. Your eyes don’t match.”

“Faces aren’t symmetrical, though, are they?”

“True. But unless I’m turning you into a ghoul, make up should be.” He dabbed at the thicker line, nibbled his lip, and ‘tsk’d a few times, before finally stepping away. “Okay, that’s not too bad.”

“Am I allowed to see?”

“Not finished yet.”

“Huh?”

“Lipstick, Keij. You won’t look the part without lippy.”

“Really?”

“Please,” he begged. “Mouths and eyes are the most noticeable things on camera. Why else do you think most movies end with a passionate kiss?”

Rolling his exquisite green shimmering, perfectly winged and emphasized eyes, Keiji groaned. “Go on, then.”

Rifling through the bag, Chikara examined two tubes, twisting them both up to check the colour, pondering each one as he checked Keiji’s skin tone. “This is pink cherry,” he informed Keiji.

“Can I eat it?”

“No. The last time I looked lipstick didn’t count towards your five a day.”

“Then why are you making it sound appetising?”

“Hush you,” he murmured, and tweaked a curl.  “Can you pout for me? No ... not too much. Just plump your lips out a little.”

“Like you when you do your ‘look’.”

“Exactly ... yes ... good ...” He slid the lipstick over Keiji’s bottom lip, then across his upper, dipping down when he reached the slight bow at the centre. 

“It’s slimy,” Keiji said.

Chikara rifled through his mum’s cosmetic case, finally finding a small pack of tissues. Selecting one, he picking it apart to liberate one layer and placed it between Keiji’s lips.  “Please ‘mmm’ on this.”

“Why?”

“The tissue blots the lipstick and helps keep it in place.”

 “But I don’t want it to stay in place,” Keiji objected. “The only reason I’m doing this is to help you practise and because you said I could take it off as soon as you’d finished.”

But he hummed into the tissue, his eyes staring reproachfully up at Chikara

“Great. And now ...” Untwisting the top off a small vial, he touched the silvery ball to Keiji’s lips.

“What’s this?”

“Gloss. This is strawberry flavoured... apparently.”

“What am I? A fruit salad? Mmm, mm, mmm!”

“Yeah, don’t do that. It comes off if you lick your lips,” warned Chikara, but he couldn’t stop smiling, especially seeing the tip of Keiji’s tongue – cat-like – as it poked out between his teeth.

“But it’s tacky,” Keiji complained. “And oddly addictive, even though it tastes nothing like strawberries ... or cherries.”

After one last application, Chikara took a step back. He’d finished now. Foundation blended, blusher applied, bronzer dusted under cheekbones gave cavernous hollows, eyeliner sharpening the slant of Keiji’s eyes, and the final touch of cherry glistening on his lips, plumping them and adding colour to a face more used to the monochrome of shadows.  “Okay,” he said. “I’m done.”

Getting to his feet, Keiji wandered over to the mirror on the wall. “You sound ... wistful.”

“Do I?”

“A little.” Keiji was staring at his reflection, arching his eyebrows, and angling his face to the side. “Do you prefer me like this?”

“It’s not a matter of preference, “Chikara began. “I like the way I can change appearances. If I’d used a warmer shade, I could have softened your cheekbones. The red lipstick would have made you _harder_ , I think. In cinematic terms, the appearance of a face says so much. But ... uh ...” He swallowed, not entirely sure what he was getting at, except that the face before him was as beautiful as it had ever been. But it was the slow unveiling of Keiji’s mask that had always appealed to him.  Taking a pace forwards, he wrapped his hands around Keiji’s waist, and pressed his lips to his shoulder. “You can wipe it off now.”

“Do you want me to?” Keiji murmured, and slid his hands up Chikara’s thighs. “I thought you might want pictures.”

“Ahhh, now you’re offering to pose for me,” Chikara murmured, nipping his neck. “The light here’s awful, though.”

“Ever the perfectionist,” Keiji laughed, and twisted around to drape his hands over Chikara’s shoulders.

“And I don’t have an uncluttered background,” Chikara replied, gesturing to the film posters, photographs and volleyball memorabilia decorating his walls.

“Not quite true,” Keiji said, and with a slow steady blink, he slipped his hand into Chikara’s, tugging him across the room.

To the bed.

He reclined, this time positioning himself in the middle of the bed, his soft black hair flaring out over the ecru cover. “I don’t have to be standing up to pose, do I?”

And Chikara tried to swallow, but his mouth had dried so fiercely he would have sworn to the world he’d suddenly been transported to the Sahara, with no chance of quenching his thirst.

Because surely _this_ Keiji was a mirage, hell-bent on disappearing as soon as he approached.

“So I could keep this ... um ... stuff ... on for a while and ... uh ...” he was saying. “If you want to take any pictures, I mean.”

“Maybe just the one,” Chikara rasped. He reached blindly across to his bedside cabinet. His fingers a fumbling mess, he clattered two mugs together, but then came into contact with his phone. _No._   “Are you okay with me taking it with this?” he asked, holding up something sturdier.

Keiji arched one eyebrow. “Polaroid? Sure.”

Chikara leant over the bed, tweaking the covers a little to remove the creases, and as he worked, he found his fingers stopped trembling, his attention far more focused on how the subject matter would appear framed, rather than the feelings he invoked.

Keiji shifted, the right side of his mouth glimmering upwards. “You’re compartmentalising.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m wantonly arranged on your bed, Chika-chan,” he murmured, “and you’re working out the composition for your shot.”

“Yes. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise. It’s what you do. I like it.”

Angling the camera down, Chikara checked the shot. _Not quite right._ He shuffled closer, looked again, and grimaced.

“Shall I move?” Keiji asked, propping himself up on his elbows.

“Nope, I shall,” Chikara replied, and with his fingertips pushed him back down. Getting onto his knees, he loomed above Keiji, then shifted until he was astride and pointing the lens at his face, his beautiful bejewelled face, paints and colours vivid but passive – a Renaissance portrait.

And nothing like the boy he could move to ecstasy with a mere trail of his lips across his skin.

He clicked the shutter, capturing a moment. Ensnaring the perfect face, frozen in time.  The photograph appeared, and after a perfunctory wave in the air, he set it on his windowsill to dry. “You can take the make-up off now,” he said.

But as he began to climb off the bed, Keiji hooked his thumbs into the belt loops of Chikara’s jeans. “How about you focus on something else?”

As he sank into him, Chikara nuzzled Keiji’s neck and breathed in the faint perfume of the powder on his cheeks. “Like what?”

Looking anything but passive, Keiji let a smile grace his features and ever so slowly batted his eyelashes as he inched closer. “Like kissing off this lipstick, for a start.”

 


End file.
